


Bruised to black

by euphrasie



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Angst and Porn, Break Up, Bruises, Condoms, Dirty Talk, Hate Sex, Infidelity, Insecurity, Jealousy, M/M, Mind Games, Power Bottoming, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 03:47:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3921784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/euphrasie/pseuds/euphrasie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick's throat clicks loudly and it can't be about having fingers in his ass, that happens enough, but he's got a thumb over his dick and he's staring at Pete like he's turned on and pissed off all at once. It's a stark shade of fury, coiled up tight into a small little package of a man. PWPish.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bruised to black

**Author's Note:**

> Wow first fic in like eighteen months. This basically turns into a PWP in the last third so you can skip to that if it's what you're after!

The one hundred percent worst part of still living with Patrick is listening to him move on. It's maybe better than the few weeks after they broke up, when Patrick was at his mom's house and ignoring Pete's frantic calls. It's also _probably_ better than the week after that when Patrick moved back in, but Pete could hear him crying himself to sleep in what used to be the spare bedroom, and nothing can be as bad as that.

“You can have our bedroom if you like,” Pete says when he first comes home, because truthfully it was _his_ fault. He's the one that couldn't keep it in his pants and he's the one that cheated on Patrick with Mikey in the first place. Pete's apologized, but Patrick's taking a mighty big stand on it this time.

“I would rather put my own eyes out with a fork than sleep in a bed you were taking other men to.” Patrick crosses his arms and looks Pete firmly in the eye, looking pissed off and like he possibly wants to put Pete's head through the coffee table.

“It's wasn't like that,” Pete says back, even when it pretty much _was_ like that. It was sex with a man he used to have sex with before he started having sex with Patrick. It sounds complicated, but it really isn't. “Please take me back.”

“Again, I'd rather put my own eyes out with a fork,” Patrick says again, the perfect tone of deadpan. “Kinda like how I wanted to put them out when I walked in on you and Mikey going at it.”

Pete listens to him cry again that night, and it fucking sucks. He starts crying himself, but quieter, so that Patrick doesn't have to hear.

 

Pete should have left the house by now. He could've moved in with Mikey, who has made his feelings for Pete pretty clear, or even Gabe, who begrudgingly took Pete's side. Mostly because he's known him longer and Pete's got too much shit on him for Saporta to be contrary.

But fuck it. He put the money into the house, sure Patrick was better at the upkeep and like, paying their utility bills, but it's in Pete's name and he's not giving up his one chance to make this work with Patrick. At this point any communication with Patrick is good.

Patrick's just as stubborn; mad because he's the slighted one, and he's the one that pays the majority of their bills and he's the one that's on speaking terms with their neighbors. Patrick is _not_ moving either. So they're both here, living in their old house, hating their situation.

“I'm going out tonight, don't expect me back,” Patrick says over breakfast, a month or so after the whole 'walking in on Pete and Mikey' situation. He's calmly scooping cornflakes into that sweet, soft, gorgeous mouth that Pete wants to fucking kiss and claim an--

“Why would I care?” Pete can play pissy bitch too, it's always warranted before eight-thirty in the morning. Pete's only up because he heard Patrick singing in the shower and he got thinking to Patrick _in_ the shower. Cute little love handles and a thick cock, pink nipples and a soft round stomach. Pete bites his lip to hold back his groan.

“I never said you'd care, I just said don't wait up.” Patrick stands up, walking over to the sink and dumping his plate in it. Pete looked over his shoulder to stare at Patrick's ass. It's been looking good in recent weeks, maybe plumper; a little thicker in his pants.

Pete watches him leave, biting at the side of his thumb and ignoring how his dick throbs in his boxers. Pete's on a diet right now; no sex, not until he gets Patrick back. That's the plan.

Pete doesn't wait up for Patrick; doesn't go out himself either. He lays in their old bed, listening until he hears the sound of the door opening and closing. Patrick's drunk, Pete knows because Patrick's a clumsy lush, knocking into everything in sight. It's more than that though, it's more than just Patrick's footsteps because there's loud whispering and there's Patrick drunk laughter and a lower snort behind him.

Pete spends the next hour with his teeth gritted, his fingers squeezed tight into a fist as he listens to Patrick getting fucked. He knows exactly what it sounds like considering he's the only other person that's had him. Patrick's noisy, even more so when drunk, and he loves having his ass played with.

“Please,” Patrick says, gasping. He must have an ass full of fingers right now, maybe a tongue with the way his words sound. Pete wonders if he's on his back, legs over the man's shoulders, or on his hands and knees, little white ass in the air as he begs for it. When they first slept together Patrick wouldn't do it face to face; seventeen with a deep set layer of self-hatred of his body, but Pete brought him out of his shell, got him to love it every way he could get it.

“Like that-- yes, right there – _fuck_.” Pete's always enjoyed Patrick's vocal display in the bedroom, but he's liking it less when he's not involved.

Patrick's happy and loud as he gets fucked by this new guy. He doesn't scream Pete's name, which is disappointing, but at least one of them is getting something at the moment. Pete hears the front door open and close in the early hours, Patrick's one night lover leaving before daylight hits.

“I sure hope he used a condom,” Pete says bitterly the next day at breakfast. He didn't sleep. When Patrick finally came, Pete just kept replaying the sounds over and over. He kept thinking about Patrick; fucking Patrick for years, never thinking he'd have to listen to someone else do it for him.

“I sure hope _you_ used a condom,” Patrick spits back. He looks well fucked but unhappy, like he expected to wake up to a stranger in his bed. Pete bites his tongue, because of course he did, Patrick hasn't got a goddamn clue how one night stands work; how any of the dating shit works. He's been with Pete since he was a kid, he's not known anything else.

“I deserve that,” Pete whispers down into his coffee mug. “I probably deserved last night too.”

Patrick doesn't say anything, just stares down into his sodden cereal. His silence is sad, soaking up the atmosphere of the room. He's making this mess worse, but Pete isn't going to stop him.

“I have to go to work,” Patrick says, standing up and dumping his still-full bowl into the sink. Pete watches him leave, catches the slight limp in his stance. He bites his tongue and listens to Patrick leave.

Pete barely sees Patrick over the next few days. He's being quiet, soft-spoken and faux shy like he used to. They eat breakfast together, but Patrick works late, pretends like he isn't a goddamn school teacher with lessons that finish at three-thirty. Pete writes, stares at his flickering cursor, then writes some more.

“Why did you do it?” Patrick says when he gets back one night. Pete's been watching TV and Patrick's been standing in the doorway. Not approaching, but not leaving either. He's been standing there and Pete's been pretending like he hasn't noticed.

“I don't know,” Pete says. He's never been good at commitment, at least he hadn't been before Patrick. It wasn't so much that he enjoyed cheating, just that he always wanted his own way, and he wanted it right now. They both assumed Patrick had tamed that out of him, that Patrick was good enough. “It wasn't about you, or how I feel about you.”

If the lighting was better, Pete knows he'd see Patrick's eyes flash. He sees the way he tenses up briefly, arms and feet crossed as he rests against the doorjamb. “That can't be true.” Patrick goes back to his new bedroom, and Pete listens, mutes the tv to work out if he can hear soft crying, but it's just silence this time.

 

Patrick gets a fucking boyfriend a week later. Not a hook-up, but Travie goddamn McCoy, some guy Patrick works with that he's met a few times. Pete feels a sharp sting of betrayal when he comes home to see Patrick and Travie laughing on the couch together, catching the way Patrick's pale white fingers are entwined with McCoy's. They look small wrapped around Travie's, all of him looks small against him and it pisses Pete off.

“Is he your boyfriend?” Pete snarls later that night. Travie's gone by that point, but Pete's been pacing his bedroom for hours, listening to them laugh together. He's surprised he's not filed his own teeth down with how he's been grinding them, he's lost his nails from biting them down to nothing.

“I guess he is,” Patrick says softly. He doesn't sound mad, he doesn't sound anything. He's got his books open on the table, half a lesson-plan scrawled out in front of him. He's wearing an old cardigan, too long in the arms, and it makes Pete's heart ache. It's his own fucking fault, but it doesn't stop it hurting.

“You're moving too fast.” Pete crosses his arms. He is infinitely more versed in love and heartbreak than Patrick; Patrick, who until a few weeks ago hadn't even been with anyone else. Patrick, who was seventeen and love-struck when they met, who didn't have a clue what he was doing. “You're not giving yourself time to get over me.”

“Shut up,” Patrick says, but Pete's caught him. He can see it in the way Patrick's eyes have suddenly focused down on his work; how his cheeks are flushed red. “Travie hasn't cheated on me. He hasn't strung me along like you did.”

“It's been two days, Patrick,” Pete says, rolling his eyes, but marching over until he's hovering beside Patrick. “And I never strung you along. I just-- I don't know what happened, Patrick. It just happened.”

“And now Travie and I are happening.” Patrick clears his throat, slamming his books shut like he isn't halfway through marking them. He stands, not looking at Pete, trying to walk straight past him. Pete isn't having it though, pushes him up against the wall, hands sliding to Patrick's hips, mouth fixed tight over Patrick.

Patrick kisses back, opens his mouth under Pete's and makes one of those sweet throaty gasps that Pete's missed recently. Patrick tries to scramble a few seconds later, hands pushing at Pete's chest. Pete takes his hands and pushes them up above Patrick's head. A few years ago Patrick would've been able to overpower Pete easily, but Pete's got muscles now; shoulders thickened and broadened by hours at the gym and it's not so easy for Patrick. Pete thinks a part of him wants to be trapped too, a small slither.

“I want you back. I want your trust and your love and I want you to stop fucking around with people that don't deserve you,” Pete says, between pressing his lips to Patrick's mouth, to his jaw, to his warm throat. He drags his teeth along Patrick's neck, sucking on the skin until Patrick's squirming.

“Let me go,” Patrick says, voice barely above a whisper. Pete steps back, doesn't push for now. Gotta let him find his way back, that's what someone smart would say, so Pete smiles pleasantly even when Patrick stumbles away, looking like he wants to cry again. He looks a lot like he wants to punch Pete too, so Pete leaves plenty of space between them.

“Don't touch me like that again,” Patrick says, face haughty but his voice stringy and not at all well put together. He's been under Pete's spell since he was seventeen, there's a shitload of messiness in this.

 

“You're the one that cheated on him. Why are you mad at him?” Gabe says to him when Pete's lounging on his couch, ignoring the fact that he's meant to be Pete's best friend and thus take his side in everything.

“He has a boyfriend. We only broke up two months ago and he'd never even been with anyone else. Apart from that one time a few weeks back.” Pete's trying to ignore that, but he can't. As his own sex drive increases from the lack of sex, his thoughts to Patrick and _his_ sexlife won't abate. “He's being an idiot.”

“He's making the most of a shitty experience,” Gabe says, kicking Pete's feet off his couch and sitting beside him. “Bro, I love you, but you have no right to complain. I'm mad at you for fucking things up. You guys were good, why did you fuck it up that way?”

“But it was Mikey.” Which is such a bad excuse it shouldn't even be allowed. Mikey's not even all that attractive these days, greasy with terrible facial hair. Pete's not sure what he was thinking, only that he wanted to play with fire – he wanted to be reckless – even when he knew it'd fuck him over. Part of him wonders if that's bullshit, because it wasn't like it was just one time with Mikey. Truthfully, what Patrick learned was, it wasn't just a one time thing, but something that had been going on for nearly two months. Pete gets that it's pretty unforgivable.

 

Patrick is in the kitchen with Travie. In actual fact, Patrick is sitting on the kitchen island, Travie between his legs, the two of them involved in a particularly heated make out session. Pete grinds his teeth in the doorway, trying to decide whether to break up the lovebirds or not. When he sees the slide of McCoy's tongue against Patrick's lips he decide he's more than welcome.

“I'm making chili for dinner, who wants some?” he says loudly, grabbing a chopping board and an onion from the cupboard before slamming the wooden slab down next to where Patrick's ass is sat.

“We were thinking of getting take-out, right?” Patrick says. His mouth is swollen and he's got one lazy arm over Travie's shoulders, the other pressing against his chest. Pete's got a knife in his hand, but Patrick doesn't take notice of that, he's too busy smiling against Travie's lips on his jaw.

“Well, I can leave some out for you guys. But really, just ask Patrick, McCoy. He freaking loves my chili, right 'Trick?” Pete smiles as he slowly dices the onion. He's never had a problem with them, but Patrick's sensitive little eyes start to well up from the juices. Pete likes to pretend he's just crying because he's upset, but he's stopped all that in recent weeks.

“It's alright,” Patrick says, sniffing and plucking his glasses from his nose to press his fingers into his eyes. “Stupid fucking onions,” he says, hopping down from the counter. Pete laughs to see that his nose just about reaches the center of Travie's chest. He stops smiling when Travie tucks him under his arm. Instead, he gets thinking about them in the bedroom; Patrick on his knees, Travie's dick sliding between his lips. He thinks about the height difference and how hot that is. Patrick _loves_ to bottom, and Pete wonders how easy he is for another man's dick; if McCoy gives it to him in all the ways he loves.

“I do really like chili. Momma used to make it for me when I was little,” Travie admits. Pete looks up at him, cranes his neck to do so, but he looks kinda awkward about it, like he knows Patrick's gonna be a bitch about it later. He probably will, Patrick's a whiney little asshole when he wants to be.

Patrick barely eats his food, shooting death glares at Pete, and then at Travie who mumbles and moans in delight, destroying his food in no time. “I can see why you're not moving out, P!”

“It's one of my many hidden talents,” Pete winks at him, Patrick kicks him hard beneath the table.

Pete's shin stings the rest of the night, but it's worth it to see how upset and unnerved Patrick is by the evening. He barely talks the rest of the night, only works up the courage to kiss Travie goodbye when he thinks Pete's not watching. It's hot, though, watching Patrick stretch up onto the tips of his toes to even attempt affection with someone else.

“Oh, so first you cheat on me, and now you're trying to steal my boyfriend from me?” Patrick points a firm finger into Pete's chest when it's the two of them alone again. He's mad because Travie didn't try to be haughty or pissed; didn't seem all that bothered about Patrick living with his ex-boyfriend. If it was the other way around, warning signals would flicker in Pete's head at that, but Patrick's too trusting for his own good.

“I'm not stealing your boyfriend, just trying to keep things amicable between us,” Pete says back, watching Patrick take one big breath before slowly letting it out and sagging completely.

“Goodnight,” Patrick says, turning on his heel and marching from the room. Pete watches him go with a grimace, he sort of wishes he had the guts to follow him. Instead he stews in the bathtub, drinking warm beer and ignoring the fact that Patrick doesn't seem to be crying over him anymore.

 

“You wanna hang out maybe?” Mikey says to Pete over the phone. Pete's sitting on his bed, listening to Patrick sing in the shower again. At least talking to Mikey means he isn't thinking of Patrick naked in the shower. He can't put his dick through that again.

“Not really,” Pete says truthfully. The truth's supposed to hurt, but not in this case. It's not love, it hasn't ever been that for them. “Patrick hates me because of you.”

“I wasn't with him,” Mikey slurs. He has a point, which Pete simply scoffs at. “He wasn't my responsibility. You said he wouldn't be home, anyway.”

“We're assholes.” Pete slaps his forehead. “Let's pretend neither exists, that'd be best for me.”

“Whatever,” Mikey responds, not sounding all that bothered that he's just been vaguely dumped. He's kind of a drifter, anyway.

 

A week later Patrick's sitting in their living room, staring at the switched-off TV. His face is pure thunder, or maybe thunder right after it's started raining. He looks pretty beat-down in all honesty.

“What's up?” Pete asks seriously, without wanting anything in return. He sits on the couch beside Patrick, concerned when Patrick just sighs heavily, turning to look at Pete with unblinking blue eyes.

“We broke up,” Patrick says, sounding like he'd really rather not talk about this. He doesn't sound heartbroken, mostly just disappointed. “He said someone else's name when we...you know.”

“Ouch,” Pete says, feeling a million times worse when Patrick just sags beside him.

“It's humiliating. First you, then him, and probably every other guy I fuck. Why does it have to be me? I'm the one with shitty self esteem, this kind of bullshit should be saved for assholes like you that need their ego taken down.” Patrick sounds like he's just letting out the very tip of rant going around his head, but Pete just shrugs at him. Again, none of this is a lie.

“Losing you brought my ego down,” Pete says softly, with honesty this time. Patrick gives him a filthy look.

“Good for fucking you,” Patrick hisses. “You haven't tried to fix this, you've just watched me try and move on and mock me from the sidelines.” He stands up, but Pete's nifty, and he grabs his wrist, using more strength than necessary to pull Patrick down onto the couch again.

“I fucked everything up for us. I know you don't trust me,” Pete says and Patrick lifts his chin up, eyes dark. “There's little point in denying that, but I am sorry. I love you and I want to be with you, that's why I'm still here.”

“Too right I don't trust you,” Patrick says. “Catching you with your dick in Mikey Way's ass does that to someone.”

Pete nods, like one of those creepy toy dogs people have in their cars. “Yeah, but maybe we could go to therapy. Maybe we could do that shit where you shut your eyes and lean back and I have to catch you.”

“Why would we do that? How does that relate to you breaking my heart?” Patrick voice is deadpan again, but the truth in the words is what stings Pete. He's heard Patrick cry over him, but he hasn't ever said the words aloud.

“It's a trust building thing, because I broke your trust and you'd have to learn to trust me again.”

“But I won't trust you. Like, maybe if you'd done it just one time it'd be different, but it was a relationship you had. You snuck around behind my back for weeks.” Patrick's arms fold over his chest, he's so close to scarpering, Pete can see it.

“It was Mikey,” Pete says, “that's not the same.”

“Fuck you, it is. If you really found him so fucking insatiable you could've come to me and we could've talked about it, maybe found an agreement.” Patrick kilters off, lips pursed, he doesn't sound all that pleased about that idea either.

Pete shakes his head. “I wouldn't do that to you.”

“But you did this,” Patrick says and he's that low-toned mad again, where his voice shakes and if Pete looks into his eyes he'll see how wet they are. Pete looks at his own knees instead, digs his thumbnail down into the denim. “You did this and now you can't deal with the fact that I'm moving on. Well, _fuck you_. Just, no. _Don't_ fuck you. I hope no one fucks you ever again.”

Patrick leaves at that. Pete watches his back, listens to the sound of the front door slamming shut and Patrick's tyres pulling out of the driveway.

Patrick comes back two hours later, surprisingly sober. He bites his lip, looking at Pete questioningly before huffing and crossing his arms over his chest. “The thing is, I've been in love with you since I was a kid, which means you've basically screwed me over and is seriously gross on your part. I teach kids the same age I was when we met. I was a baby – but whatever – I just mean that pretty much all of this is your fault.”

“I'm sorry about that.” Pete isn't really, Patrick saved him, he really did, and he knows he'd be dead without him. Even if he was just a kid, and even if it's been detrimental to Patrick's own health – well, that doesn't take away what he's done for Pete.

“You're an asshole, you're so much more than an asshole, but I don't seem to care and it pisses me off.” Patrick looks at him in the eye, not crying and not too mad. He sits down on the couch and Pete crawls over him, leeching on him, kissing his face, his nose. Patrick doesn't kiss back, but he doesn't throw punches either.

“I shouldn't let you do this,” Patrick says quietly, sounding like he's already given up. “You're an asshole. You're a cheating dick and I'm better than you.”

"I've always said you're better than me.” Pete grinds their dicks together, Patrick's thighs spread each side of his own once Pete's pushed him flat to the couch. He's really not working the haughty expression; just sad confusion fading to lust.

“You gotta tell me about you and Travie... what it was like. I'm interested to know,” Pete says, his hands fumble to beneath Patrick's t shirt, pushing it up under Patrick's arms. Patrick's belly is soft, a little jiggly, and Pete presses his face to it; stubble catching in the soft hair just below his belly button.

Pete looks up at Patrick from his position sprawled over him. He can see that Patrick's nipples have perked up at being exposed and Pete lifts up slightly to suck one into his mouth, waiting on Patrick's response.

“Patrick, tell me,” Pete says when Patrick still doesn't talk. Pete rubs the spit-wet nub in his hand, until his pink little nipples harden under Pete's touch, and his dick stiffens against Pete's grinding thigh.

“He – uh – he was lazy, really. Had to ride him if I wanted to get off. I think it was supposed to be casual between us but--” Patrick arches up beneath Pete, hands trying to grasp a hold of Pete on top of him. “--You know how I like to ride.”

Pete fucking knows perfectly. One time, Patrick tied Pete down to the bed and fucked himself raw on Pete's cock. He'd sit back from time to time, let Pete see where he was buried tight, before fisting his own cock in his hand, laughing as he shot out all over Pete's chest. It was fucking hot, nothing short of that. Pete jerked off about it for two weeks after.

“You ride him hard? You take your clothes off for him?” Pete asks, sucking on Patrick's other nipple, his hands roaming Patrick's body. He's thicker in recent months and it's made his chest round out slightly, giving Pete more to play with. He doesn't care either way – however heavy Patrick is – but it's always fun having more of him to play with.

“Only when I was drunk.” Patrick bites his lip as Pete twists a nipple. “I don't-- nakedness and me don't go hand in hand.”

“Now that's bullshit,” Pete says into Patrick's chest. Nakedness and Patrick are, like, two things that work perfectly together. Pete sits back suddenly, pulling his own shirt off and watching Patrick's eyes slide to his chest. Pete's been working out to starve off the need to fuck and it's sort of done wonders for cutting his abs. Patrick's practically salivating.

Pete's hands slide to Patrick's belt, playing with the zipper, feeling Patrick's hard dick press up against the material. Pete shoves his hand into Patrick's pants, knuckles grazing coarse hair as he feels the heat of Patrick's skin.

“Kinda wanna eat your ass,” Pete says. “Did Travie do it? Did he rim you? Did he even suck your dick or is he above that?”

“There were mutual blow jobs. It was mostly that, really,” Patrick says, and then narrows his eyes as Pete rides his dick in his hand. “You're getting off on this!” he accuses. Pete gives him an odd look, like he doesn't understand what Patrick's possibly getting at. “You're getting turned on hearing about me with other people.”

“You might be a slut,” Pete says, which is a lie, “but you're my slut.”

“I'm not a slut. And you know what? I lied, I don't want this anymore,” Patrick scoffs, even though his eyes are hazy and his pink nipples are pebbled; even when he's got his shirt stuck beneath his armpits and Pete's hand on his dick.

“You're not a slut,” Pete concedes. “But I still want to hear about it.”

“I missed you,” Patrick grits out eventually, throwing his head back and groaning when Pete yanks his pants down to mid thigh, exposing his hard cock. It's heavy and thick, resting against his soft belly. Pete presses his thumb against Patrick's balls, feeling the twitch, seeing Patrick's soft, lightly haired thighs tense up. Pete shifts back a little bit, so he's not quite upright and presses a kiss to the inside of Patrick's knee.

“What did you miss about me?” Pete asks, wanting to hear it. He doesn't deserve this, getting his way, but he wants it all the same.

“No one...” Patrick starts, looking down his nose at Pete tracing his fingertips against Patrick's ribs, how he suddenly yanks Patrick's pants off. He licks a stripe against the underside of Patrick's knee, tasting sweat and soft skin. “No one does me like you.”

Pete's silent for a while, waiting on more, but Patrick says nothing and instead shifts his hips up, moving one of his own hands to his cock. Pete watches Patrick jack himself, legs open, one held in Pete's grip. He'd bet a million dollars Patrick wouldn't do this in front of anyone else; Travie or any other guy he's possibly fucked in recent weeks.

“Can I fuck you?” Pete asks. “I wanna fuck you, wanna stick my fingers in your mouth and lick your ass out and choke on your dick.” Pete grinds down, lets Patrick's thigh feel his cock; lets him think over what Pete's just said. It's not like he didn't give him options.

“Fuck. Yes, please,” Patrick says, chest rising and falling, pushing his blond hair out of his pink face. Pete slides the one hand he hasn't got wrapped around Patrick's knee upwards, pushing into Patrick's soft mouth. Patrick likes having his mouth stuffed, it's weird, but Pete likes to watch his two fingers sink into that mouth, feel the hot tongue curl around his digits. Patrick stares at him, but it's not particularly submissive; it's like this is on him – that he's demanding this.

Pete puts another finger to Patrick's mouth, so that three are hooked between his lips, pushing down on his bottom row of teeth, until Patrick lets his mouth drop open. “I have to get lube,” Pete says, because he wants to do it here on the couch and not in their bedroom. It seems important to keep the mood going like this.

“Get a condom,” Patrick says, and Pete's glad he isn't going to back out of this now. Pete's balls are so metaphorically blue that they're actually purple. He skids out of the room, deciding to ditch his pants in the bedroom. He goes to tear one condom off the strip, but figures they may need more so grabs the whole lot, yanking the draw open for some lube before skipping back to Patrick.

Pete hangs out in the doorway for a time, watching Patrick naked on the couch. He's removed his shirt now, and is spread out prettily and soft over the couch; one leg over the back of the furniture as he plays with his cock. He's teasing himself, stroking careful fingertips down his shaft, not cupping or holding, just touching.

He looks over at the doorway and smiles, biting down on that lip some more. “Fuck, Pete.”

“Yeah, fuck me,” Pete smiles, rolling his shoulder before sliding back over to Patrick. He wants to feel Patrick's body on top of his own, feel Patrick's hands on him like he used to, but he guesses that's for another time. Pete's strokes his own dick, he's never been the tease to himself like Patrick is; always wants it all at once.

Pete flips the lid on the lube and squeezes some onto his fingers. It isn't as if Patrick's not been stretched out recently, but he's missed it all the same. Sometimes he wouldn't even use his dick; especially when they first started. He'd fuck Patrick with just his fingers, laughing around Patrick's cock as he'd clench down snug to his digits. As long as his ass is getting some kind of action, Patrick's pretty fucking easy.

He guides his hand between Patrick's cheeks, watching him spread his legs wider and shift a cushion beneath them. Pete likes the view he gets; Patrick's slack jaw and his heavy cock and the way his own fingers sink between flesh; prying Patrick open.

Patrick's throat clicks and it can't be about having fingers in his ass, that happens enough, but he's got a thumb over his dick and he's staring at Pete like he's turned on and pissed off all at once. It's a stark shade of fury, coiled up tight into a small little package of a man.

Part of Pete wants Patrick to let go of the anger, just for a little while, but another part of him can physically feel it. Patrick's skin burns red and he's tighter than normal around Pete's fingers; there's a friction constantly pushing up against Pete's own desperation, but Pete _likes_ it. Patrick's a fierce, feisty asshole when he wants to be, and he likes it now.

Pete slides his fingers out, enjoying the wet sound they make as they slide from Patrick's body. He runs them up Patrick's balls, before catching onto Patrick's own hand, using his quick strength to grab Patrick's wrists and pin them up above his head.

“Don't fight me now,” Pete hisses low, feeling Patrick's cock against his belly. His own rides against Patrick's hip and he humps down slowly, letting Patrick feel the thick and heavy pulse of it.

“Don't say his name,” Patrick says slowly, low in Pete's ear. “Don't call out his name.”

“When we were together it was only ever you I was thinking about,” Pete says, dropping the act for a moment. He won't lie and say he was thinking about Patrick when he was with Mikey, but he's going to try and keep his name from interfering between them now.

Pete sits back again, enough to grab the condom and slide it down his cock. He likes doing Patrick bareback, likes to feel him hot and tight without the layer of latex; likes to watch the snail trails of his come slide down Patrick's thighs moments later. But he'll give Patrick this now, give him what he wants. He dribbles lube over his cock, not caring when it drips down onto the couch cushions as he crawls over to Patrick.

He goes to thrust in without guidance, but Patrick shifts at the last moment and Pete ends up sliding his cock between Patrick's cheeks, right up against the small of his back. Pete laughs when Patrick shudders, already feels nails biting down against his shoulders.

This time he holds himself steady with a hand wrapped around his dick, pushing it into Patrick; just the very tip. Patrick gasps like a goddamn virgin, like he hasn't taken dick a hundred times before. Maybe it's for show, Pete isn't sure, but he likes the feel of it; of Patrick clamping tight and wet against his cockhead.

“Be good and I'll give you the rest,” Pete says. He doesn't know when this became a game of mean spiritedness, but he likes it. His stomach is tight and his fingers are biting down into Patrick's asscheeks, holding him open. Patrick looks like he wants to maybe shove his knuckles into Pete's nose, but he's too turned on, little round stomach pushing up and down as he remains a _hotwet_ vice around Pete's tip.

When Patrick refuses to loosen up, Pete just pushes in harder against Patrick's tight asshole. Patrick moans hard, a bubbling gasp as his thighs slide up around Pete's waist, pulling him in. Patrick's pink mouth falls open again, tongue curled against his bottom lip as his eyes flutter shut.

“Like that,” Patrick cries, hands on Pete's back, practically squeezing their bodies tighter together. Pete's hands move from Patrick's ass, up to his flanks and beneath his armpits as he tries to steady himself on his hands and knees. When he's ready, he starts to thrust, tiny little shoves into Patrick's body – _God_ – he's fucking missed this, fucking Patrick down into mattresses and couches and goddamn table tops and that one time in the back of Patrick's old Prius. It's not as if this is the only way they do it, that Patrick never tops, but he just loves it so much like this; loves being penetrated and played around with that Pete can't help but prefer it like this. Patrick's so much more colorful and loud when it's his ass getting fucked.

Pete leans onto one elbow, hips still grinding down into Patrick's now damp body. Patrick's jerking himself off, head thrown black, gold hair a shade darker from sweat. Pete cups his hand around Patrick's face, thumb dipping into Patrick's open, wet mouth, pulling it wider.

“Let me touch you,” Patrick says, squirming when Pete's thumb hooks tighter against the corner of his mouth, making it harder to talk. Pete nods his head, laughing when Patrick's eyes roll back at the feel of Pete's cock nudging his prostate. When Pete pulls out he sees that the lube's slicked the hairs down on the tops of his thighs and that Patrick's entire ass is shining with lube. Pete maybe got a little heavy handed with the stuff this time.

When he touches his latex-covered cock it's hot and so fucking hard. He jacks himself as Patrick repositions himself on the cushions, shifting further until his back hits the curve of the armchair and he's semi-upright. Pete can see that Patrick's pink and swollen when he holds him open again. That's fucking hot, enough that Pete takes a staggered breathe before repositioning himself and sliding in. He stays on his knees this time, taking more of Patrick's weight. Patrick's hands are all over him; over his chest and then downwards, scratching through the coarse hair just above Pete's dick, before his hands slide upward again.

“Was he better than this?” Patrick asks, nail catching roughly against Pete's nipple. “Did he let you fuck him like this?”

“I thought you didn't want to know about him,” Pete manages to grunt out, lifting Patrick up enough so that he's braced over Pete's legs. Pete slides a hand beneath him, thumb hooking to where he's got Patrick's asshole wrapped around him. He rubs against Patrick's rim, watches those pretty golden eyebrows crush into each other.

“I don't... I just wanna know whether he let you do this, because I don't see why you'd go with him otherwise.” Patrick moves his hand from Pete's hip to pull at the thumb threatening his asshole. He puts that hand around his own back, using his body weight to push Pete down. They're not usually this quick at changing positions, but Pete doesn't mind when he watches Patrick practically climb on top of his dick, hair flopped forward. He needs to get it cut, the silly blond bangs hiding his eyes – hiding everything apart from that pink mouth, those flushed cheeks.

Patrick leans forward when he's settled, hands sliding to Pete's throat. When he shakes his head to push his hair out of his face, he looks mad again; high on lust. He squeezes his hands briefly around Pete's neck, only once before he moves them away. Maybe he's trying to show he has the self-control to not do the things that Pete does, but Pete doesn't care. Patrick can choke him all he wants if it means getting him back.

“Just shut up and take my cock,” Pete says, hands squeezing Patrick's plentiful hips in his hands. Pete wants to rip him apart and fuck him through it. He's so worked up on stupid aggression, but he doesn't do anything but squeeze and squeeze Patrick's hips until he can feel his small frame beneath his hands. Patrick's thick at the moment, deliciously so, but he's pretty tiny beneath it all, and Pete likes feeling that fragility under his own hands.

Patrick's in pain, but he doesn't stop Pete; doesn't try and choke him again. His hand slides to his own cock, getting a sweaty hand around it and jerking off roughly. Pete watches him bounce, watches the slight jiggle of his stomach as he does so, watches Patrick run his fingers from where Pete's buried inside and then over his balls and up the shaft again. Pete watches him come; face squeezed up, hole clenched tight and fingers of his spare hand braced heavy on Pete's chest.

Pete holds off even when he feels Patrick come on his own stomach, he watches Patrick, the way he breathes heavy, hands shaking as he sits on Pete; heavy and sweaty. Pete drops his hands from Patrick's waist to see the perfect shape of his fingers around Patrick's hips. They'll turn a dark purple soon enough, his jeans will make him ache when slides back into them, pressing down into the bruises.

Patrick shakily lifts up, wincing when Pete's thick cock slides out. Pete thinks Patrick's going to up and leave Pete with his swollen hard-on. It's what he deserves probably, but Patrick's too good to him and he simply drops to his knees in front of the couch, waiting for Pete to swing his feet down onto the floor. Pete tugs the condom off, tossing it over Patrick's shoulder, bringing him in with a hand in his thin hair, waiting for Patrick to engulf him.

Patrick doesn't tease, is probably too worn out for that, but Pete's close to coming anyway and watching Patrick's soft red lips slide up and down his cock, feeling his tongue press and roll against his balls as Patrick's fingers push up underneath where Pete's sitting down is enough. He doesn't push them in, just teases, as he makes soft little gaspy noises.

“Always been good as this. Fuck – take it, baby,” Pete grunts, not particularly elegant, but Patrick does what he asks, blue eyes staring up at Pete as he comes thick and fast into Patrick's mouth. Patrick swallows it down as Pete pushes his head away. Patrick just rests his head down against Pete's hip and doesn't speak for a good while.

It's going to take a good long while to recover from the physicality of it all, and he's already starting to feel pretty gross. He needs to shower and Patrick must feel like a wreck too. He touches his hands to Patrick's hair, stroking lightly, surprised when Patrick justs lifts his head to stare at him.

“I don't know what to do,” Patrick says softly. He stands up, knees red and bumpy from the carpet. His hips look awful, and Pete feels genuinely bad. They play rough – at least they used to play rough when they were together – but never to the point where Patrick's bruised to black.

“What do you want to do?” Pete watches Patrick pull his shirt back on before sitting down on the couch beside Pete. He winces harder, tucking his legs beneath himself.

“The sex is still good even when I don't trust you.” Patrick taps his fingers to his chin, looking at Pete and then away. “I don't want to be cheated on again, but I feel like the possibility's still there.”

“Of course it is,” Pete snorts, crossing his arms. He's getting cold now, sweat starting to cool on his body. “I don't wanna say I won't do it again. I don't _want_ to do it again, but I can't-- I can't make that promise.”

“Then if you are going to fuck around be discreet about it. Don't _let_ me find out or I swear to God I will leave and you won't ever see me again.” Patrick juts his jaw out and Pete feels sick at the possibility of losing Patrick in every way. Part of him could deal with the loss of their....whatever this is, but not him completely.

“Okay,” he says, feeling bad about it, but giving in. “I won't let you find out.”

“Fine,” Patrick nods his head, not looking happy. He doesn't want this, he wants Pete on his knees – begging for forgiveness and making shitty blind promises about staying faithful for the rest of his life. Pete's bullshitted him enough in recent months though, he figures it's time he starts being a little more honest.

**Author's Note:**

> I guess I'll be seeing y'all in another eighteen months j/k


End file.
